MERCILESS DOGS AND RUSH CRITICS

It was Christmas Eve 1983 and it was colder than a mother-in-law's
intentions. The wind was howling, a sound I've always found strangely
comforting, and I was enjoying the roar as I sat at my desk near the door.
With the wind marching through the trees like an armed Confederate
regiment, it was nearly impossible to hear anything else.

But I heard a dog's bark. The yelp was baritone deep, vicious, mean and
yet, I detected an odd strain of joy about it. Having been around dogs all
my life, I knew this animal was going in for some kind of kill. I don't
know why, but it came to me that my wife's uncle, Olin McCall, who also
happened to be our closest neighbor, had two pet goats. For some reason,
dogs hate goats like vampires hate daybreak. Instantly, I sprang from my
seat and bounced to the place that I safely store my .22 Winchester rifle,
the one my grandpa passed to me before he passed from us.

Carefully laying the rifle into the front seat of my old Plymouth Fury, I
drove like a demon toward Olin's house. As soon as I got out of the car I
saw three dogs surrounding a poor goat, a totally defenseless, vulnerable
creature who was left to rely on the sympathy of her tormenters to save her
from death. Of course, no such reprieve was forthcoming from the three
mutts, especially the pit bulldog that seemed to be the ramrod of this
mangy marauding trio.

I fired a shot into the ground causing two of the dogs to flee, but the pit
hung onto the goat's neck like grim death. The long rifle, hollow point
cartridge that struck directly between his red hot eyes radically altered
his attitude toward goat killing. I'm sure he would have appreciated and
would've taken every advantage of an opportunity to repent, but because my
shot was true and the bullet deadly, his moment of redemption never came. I
took no joy in doing what I had to do that day. I hope it never falls my
lot to have to do something like that again. Shooting animals just doesn't
suit me.

And that brings me to Rush Limbaugh.

As I read opinion column after opinion column, listened to comedian after
comedian joyfully lambast Rush Limbaugh over his admitted addiction to
prescription pain killers, the mental video of those there mangy mutts
attacking and, with all the fun of that goat's Christmas morning mauling on
that cold December afternoon kept replaying itself in my mind.

By no means do I intend to paint Rush Limbaugh, the King of Talk Radio, as
anything approaching meek. He is by anyone's account the loudest, the
bravest, and the most effective barb that ever ripped into the idealistic
flesh of a liberal. And he loves every minute of it. No question, the
take-no-poisoners-when-it-come-to-the-Left attitude he has gleefully and
endlessly displayed on 650 radio stations to over 20 million listeners a
week for three hours a day five days a week for the past 15 years makes his
newly found vice (weakness? sickness?) no less a delicious treat than
fresh, warm goat meat to a gang of ravenous stray dogs.

Rush is not meek. Hardly. Brash is a much more apt word here. But for now,
as he works to complete a self-induced 30-day rehabilitation program, he is
as likely as meek as Uncle Olin's goat. Defenseless. Helpless. Even pathetic.

Is Limbaugh a hypocrite? Probably. But there's breaking news to report! To
varying degrees, every one of us are hypocrites. We wave our flags and
sing, God Bless America while we pay highly educated accountants to find
(create?) every tax deduction that the average IRS agent might in his
wildest dreams, deem viable. A lot more than a few of us, me maybe being
chief among us, describe to our children the awful punishment that will
befall them if we ever discover they have been smoking cigarettes and we
preach our sermons through smoke stained teeth and wave a yellow, nicotine
stained finger in their faces. We harp on honesty but don't bother to go
back into the store to return the twenty the store clerk gave us back as
change when we were only owed a ten. The big store can afford it and it's
raining, we excuse and we ask ourselves, "who will ever know?"

Opinion journalists, be they liberal or conservative, own no mirrors. I
know this because at times, times such as today, I become one myself.

As I opined in an earlier effort, either you hate Limbaugh or you love him.
When his blood showed up in the water those who hate him and his opinions,
attacked without mercy. Likewise, those who love him didn't hesitate to
dive in to protect him at any and all cost to their journalistic reputations.

Some folks, as I understand it, have even prayed for him.

Benjie Watts of Gamewell is an award-winning columnist for the News-Topic.